“What are you saying, sir?” I ask.
“I’m just stating a fact.” The front door bangs open and a group of our scouts come inside, here to report to Chris. “Somebody planted Omega troops and vehicles and weapons here years ago. Who was it? And how the hell did they get away with it?”
“We could debate this for hours,” Chris says, “but we can’t right now. We have work to do. Let’s go.”
He turns away from the Colonel, conversing with the scouts. Apparently the rest area is safe.
“It’s worth some thought,” Colonel Rivera says, studying his cigar. “That’s all I’m saying. It’s worth some serious thought.”
I return to the front of the restaurant and walk outside, searching for my friends. Derek is across the street at an old travel convenience shop. Max and Jeff are with him. Alexander is with Sophia at the far end of the convoy, giving orders to the newer recruits.
All of these people. All of these soldiers.
All of them ordinary folks like me.
The colonel is right. Maybe it is worth some serious thought about who helped Omega infiltrate the United States. Maybe there’s a deeper reason for this collapse than a straightforward invasion and electromagnetic pulse. Maybe it’s something worse.
Way worse.
But what?
“Hey.” Angela steps outside, her radio in her hand. “They found something.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s on the south side,” Chris states, holstering his own radio. “Come on.”
We follow him around the backside of the restaurant. Behind it is a dirt lot. There’s a fence around the square patch of land. A sheet of metal has been chained to the support beams in the fence.
The lot has been tamped down, clearly dug up not too long ago and then filled in. It’s a fairly large square of land. Tears burn the back of my eyes, sizzling like acid in my throat. The sheet of metal is streaked with black spray paint. Letters. I can hardly read them through the tears blurring my vision.
Below the words is a crude depiction of an American flag. This has got to be the work of a militia group. Who else would take the time to bury this many dead? And beneath the flag are four words. A promise. A threat.
Game on.
Later, we move the convoy forward. Away from the rest stop at Laval Road. To the Chokepoint itself. It is located at the foot of the Tehachapi Mountains. The pinch in the freeway, right after the two major interstates merge to become the single Interstate 5.
Right to the side of the Chokepoint is a parking lot with another restaurant. This one is similar to the Iron Skillet back at Laval Road, only it was once called Taco House. A Mexican eatery. Dozens of piñatas hang from the ceiling here, covered in dust. Many of them riddled with holes due to termites, mice and moths. We have based our Headquarters in this building — since it is the only building in sight. Our forces are otherwise spread out. We don’t want to group everyone in a single spot. It’s too much of a temptation for the enemy.
It’s midnight when I hear it. The sound of a rumbling engine, a clear contrast against the stark silence of our encampment. Our men have secured the area for us, and we are gearing up for what could quite possibly be our last fight. There are no exterior lights. No noises. We are as silent as the night itself, tucked into the shadows of the mountains.
And then this.
I’m sleeping in a booth inside the restaurant. Chris’s arm is around my shoulders and I’m slumped against his chest. A pile of maps are unrolled on the table in front of us. The moonlight was bright enough to read by, but we fell asleep eventually, exhausted.
Until the engine sound. It’s clear and defined. And familiar. I perk up, straining. The engine gives a slight hiccup. I sit straight up, shaking Chris’s arm. “Hey,” I say. “Wake up. Come on.”
“What?” He stirs, drawing me closer.
“Hear that?”
He opens his eyes, foggy with sleep.
“Oh, great,” he murmurs.
“Don’t be such a killjoy.” I wiggle out of his embrace and run through the restaurant, jogging outside. The sound is louder now. Yes. I head to the stretch of southbound freeway outside the restaurant.
“We’ve got air support coming in,” I say to a patrol at the road.
“Finally,” he replies.
I stand on the sidewalk, grinning. The silhouette of a biplane flits across the moon for an instant, circling a couple of times before coming in for a landing. It coasts into a tottering U-turn, comes to a slow halt and finally the engine cuts out. I approach the plane with a wide smile on my face.
“Manny, you idiot,” I laugh. “I thought something happened to you!”
“You thought wrong, my dear.” Manny stands up in the cockpit, goggles glinting with moonlight, flight cap sticking up like a dunce hat. “But I take it as a compliment coming from you. You must have been worried.”
“I wasn’t worried. I knew you’d make it here sooner or later.” I fold my arms across my chest as he climbs down, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. “But it’s nice to see you here either way.”
“I agree,” he says, pushing the goggles around his neck. His pupils are dilated with adrenaline. “You know how long it took me to find your bloody National Guard unit? Two days. I showed up at Sector 20 and the people there told me that you’d deployed to the Chokepoint. What’s the big idea?”
“The idea is that we’re going to stop Omega’s advance into the valley,” I reply. “Why did it take you so long to get to Sector 20? You were supposed to be there a long time ago.”
“Said who?” Manny gives me a look. “I’m a volunteer. I’ll come when I’m ready to come.” He grins. “Now where’s the head fat cat around this place? I need to check in with him.”
“Chris is in the Taco House.”
“How fitting. What about Rivera?”
“He’s talking to the patrols.”
“Here we are in the middle of the war and he’s talking. Show me the way.”
“To Chris or Rivera?”
“Chris.”
I choke on a laugh, leading Manny across the concrete, through the single parking lot, and back to the Taco House.
“How was the flight in?” I ask.
“How wasn’t it, you mean.” Manny stomps through the front door of the restaurant, sizing up Chris, his boots propped up on the booth across from him, studying a map. “Greetings, Commander. Nice to see you’re still kicking.”
Chris replies, “What took you so long?”
“I was busy.” Manny stuffs his goggles and flight cap into the pocket of his leather duster. “And I hear we’re about to get a whole lot busier.”
“We’ve got a five thousand man army headed our way in twenty-four hours,” Chris answers. “And air support isn’t even here yet.”
“Don’t insult me, kid,” Manny sniffs. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“No offense, Manny, but we need more than a biplane for this one.” Chris stands up, tossing a map to the ground. “You didn’t see any Omega troop movements from the air, did you?”